


Stardusted

by phooykazooi



Series: From One Star to the Next [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Awkward Flirting, Baby Yoda is Strong in the Force, Corin does not understand democracy, Corin is as curious abt everything as Baby Yoda, Fluff and Angst, Force-Sensitive Corin, Gay Disaster Corin Valentis, How Do I Tag, LMAO, M/M, Mandalorian Competency Kink, OR IS IT, Past Brainwashing, Pseudo-History, That's Not How The Force Works, The Force, Touch-Starved, Worldbuilding, authoritarian regimes are bad, bisexual disaster dynn djarin, def not George Lucas, no beta we die like men, who tf Knows how the Force works tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phooykazooi/pseuds/phooykazooi
Summary: Corin tags along on a job.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: From One Star to the Next [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694911
Comments: 21
Kudos: 266





	1. Jungle Jedi Temple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rescue and Regret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648874) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> honestly idk wtf I'm doing :/

The _Razor Crest_ is small and cramped, but she’s a solid mass humming beneath his boots. Corin breathes deep, smells the recycled air and taps the child’s puny, pruny forehead.

“How about some games, huh? Does your papa have anything for you to play with?”

The Mandalorian materializes from thin air. In his gloved hand is a small silver ball. “Here,” he says, holding it inches from Corin’s nose.

“Um,” Corin cautiously takes it. The child coos, but Corin keeps a tight grip on the shiny bauble. “Do you…? Ah. He’s gone.”

The Mandalorian has indeed disappeared.

“Let’s go find you something you _won’t_ choke on,” he grumbles.

He ends up using a repurposed data pad. He’d stripped it of all its features and uploaded a simple coloring screen. The baby can choose any color it desires and draw to its heart’s content. The little guy takes to it with a gusto. He praises it for its creativity and has joined it on the floor, legs in the air.

“We gotta get you some paper,” he tells it. 

There’s a single knock on the door. Corin turns sharply, preparing to palm his knife, but relaxes at the sight of the Mandalorian.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says.

Corin’s stomach growls. “Dinnertime,” he says to the child. It’s staring intently at the screen as it drags a claw lightly down the center. He smiles and rises to a crouch, putting his fingertips to its back. “C’mon, silly bean, let’s go eat.” With gentle nudges, it is coaxed away from the device and toddles into the makeshift kitchen. The table is set, the child’s booster seat prepared. Corin sets it into the chair while the Mandalorian serves their plates.

It’s a quiet affair. The hunter had forwent rations and cooked the meal from scratch, an experience Corin rarely indulged. It’s the most delicious meal he’s had the pleasure to experience. After his plate is scraped clean, he thanks the Mandalorian for the food.

“It was really good,” he says, licking sauce off of his thumb.

The Mandalorian hastily stands and clears the table. Corin rushes to do the same.

“No,” the Mandalorian orders. “You’ve done enough. I can take care of the kid for a while.”

“But—” 

“I have spoken,” he snaps.

Corin instantly submits. “S-sure.”

The thing is, he’s not really sure where to go. He hovers at the child’s high chair, resisting the urge to wring his hands. The baby chirps. It waves its hands at him, the claws messy and dripping. He smiles and bends down, smoothing his hand over its head.

“Good night, little one,” he murmurs into the top of its fuzzy head. Thoughtlessly, as reflexive as breathing, he kisses its crown and departs for his room.

* * *

His room is a repurposed storage unit. When the Mandalorian prepared it, Corin doesn’t know, but the bed is comfortable and the blankets perfectly soft. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He wakes slowly. He’s warm and peaceful, and this more than anything confuses him. Corin blinks the sleep from his eyes and stretches languidly, recalling the day before and marveling at his luck (he only hopes it will hold). His morning routine consists of a short work out, followed by a quick shower and the usual ablutions. When he emerges from his room, hair freshly brushed and teeth clean, breakfast has been served and his (shipmates? new job? new responsibilities?) Are finishing up their meal. His plate is steaming and Corin happily digs in.

“Thank you for the food,” he says after he’s all but licked the plate clear. “You’re a fantastic cook.”

“You must have faulty tasters,” the Mandalorian dryly responds.

(The food was slow-cooked, roasting in the oven for twelve hours. Cooked food was an outrageous privilege the no Stormtrooper could take part in. They were served nutritious slop, which had all the necessary requirements for adolescents growing into adulthood. CN-113 was seventeen years old, young and rebellious and hungry for change. He wanted to eat like a general, but he was caught and disciplined. It was his second strike.)

Corin knows what good food smells like. To taste it is a miracle.

“It’s great,” he says, patting his full stomach and smiling wide.

The Mandalorian stands and moves to take Corin’s empty plate. As he reaches down, Corin sees a thin sliver of skin between the edge of the glove and the sleeve. He acts without thinking, as though his body moves without his consent—he slides the first two fingers of his dominant hand beneath the coat. Soft fingertips trace the raised tendon, unerringly locates the radial, and _presses._

The plate drops from a nerveless hand, flinging leftovers everywhere. The Mandalorian takes a huge step back, stumbles over his vacant chair, and falls backwards head over heels.

Corin staggers to his feet and exclaims, “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine,” says the Mandalorian, laying supine on the filthy floor. “Everything—everything is fine.”

May the Void take him, Corin removes himself from the entire situation. He snatches the exuberant child from its high chair and frantically retreats to his room. He locks the door and huddles on his bed with the blanket pulled over their heads.

“I really messed up, didn’t I?” he murmurs to the child.

It blinks at him, bulging brown eyes shadowed and dark. Its expressive mouth peruses, its ears slightly lower. It chirps soothingly and puts its claws on his cheeks.

The two of them cuddle in the flimsy shield the comforter provides, breathing each other’s air and keeping their own thoughts.

* * *

Eventually, there’s a knock on his door.

Corin twitches awake and then freezes. He waits for the door to open.

“Corin?” the Mandalorian calls.

His throat clicks as he swallows. The Mandalorian says his name once more, a smidge louder. He doesn’t sound like he wants Corin dead, but neither had any of his generals. “Yes?”

“We’ll be landing soon,” he explains. A pause, and then, “Are you okay?”

Something about the question propels Corin to his feet. Child dozing in his arms and bedhead likely horrendous, he unlocks and opens the door. The hunter stands in front of him, Beskar amour glittering in the grim light. He’s absolutely still, body language unreadable. Corin waits for him to speak. When he doesn't, he raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“We, um…” The Mandalorian pauses. He says nothing else.

“Where are we landing?” asks Corin, hoping for snowy mountains and chilly winter winds.

“The—the, uh…” He trails off again. His fists clench.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Corin wishes he knew the Mandalorian’s name. As it is, he can only bounce the child and step closer, peering intently into the T-visor. “Are _you_ okay?”

His head tips away. Voice strained, he says, “I’m fine. Yes.”

Soon, Corin learns they’re landing on a _stupidly_ hot moon. It’s muggy, muddy, and miserable. He takes one step off the ramp, stops, and turns to the Mandalorian. “Can we go somewhere else?”

“No,” he says, clapping a hand over Corin’s shoulder. He squeezes and gently nudges him forward.

The child waddling between them, they pick their way out of the thick jungle and into a clear-cut village. Huts line the towering trunks, disappear into the foliage and blend seamlessly into the natural scenery. While Corin gawks, the Mandalorian seems to know exactly where to go. He leads them into a busy tavern, hundreds of feet off the ground. The transition was so smooth, Corin could not pinpoint the moment they elevated. The height is impressive, and though he does not suffer from acrophobia, he fears for the child’s safety enough to keep a firm hold on the little thing.

The kid doesn’t mind at all; it’s far too concerned with absorbing the sights.

They seat themselves in the hollow part of a trunk. It must have been carved out long ago, and however it was done it didn’t seem to harm the tree. The Mandalorian takes the child and places it in a booster seat, then settles himself adjacently. Corin follows suit, watching the hustle and bustle with wide eyes. His old workplace was never so crowded. There was a band playing a jaunty tune in the back, and servers were buzzing to and fro.

“Corin,” the Mandalorian prompts. “What do you want to eat?”

“Oh, um. I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

He hums and signals for a server. “What’s your special?” he asks and orders two meals.

“What about you?” Corin questions.

“I’ll eat after I find a job,” he answers.

“But aren’t you hungry?”

“Later, Corin,” he says, more firmly.

Corin lets it go.

As they wait for their food, a patron joins them at the table. They are hominid, but there’s a shimmer to their skin that is distinctly inhuman. They are hairless, completely bald, and eyebrow-less. They stand a polite distance away and open their mouth.

“Leave,” the Mandalorian interrupts.

They frown, then turn cat-like eyes to Corin. “Will you tell me to fuck off, too, or may I speak?”

“Um,” says Corin.

“Excellent.” They pull out a chair at the open space near Corin and sit without regard for the bounty hunter. “My name is Doctor Ross. I’m a librarian working for the University of the New Republic. I am in need of bodyguards.”

“Not interested,” the Mandalorian says.

Two plates of Beskar thunk onto the table.

“What about now?” Ross asks blandly.

* * *

They take the job.

* * *

Doctor Ross is studying the old Jedi philosophies.

“The New Republic needs new government,” they say. “We must strengthen citizen rights and restrict political power. Who better to learn from than the Jedi Order?”

“They all died,” the Mandalorian argues. “What could you possibly learn from a dead government?”

“Mandalorian, government does not _die,_ it _changes._ Civilization, like life, evolves. There is evidence of that throughout history. My job as a public servant and a philosopher is to study the past so as to prepare for the future.”

Corin is absolutely _fascinated._

“So,” he tries to grasp, “there’s a whole library, but it’s _huge_. And—and you work for it.”

“Correct,” they cheerfully confirm.

“And this library doubles as a school, but anyone can see it. Like, they can go and read whatever they want, whenever they want, with no repercussions.”

“That’s right,” they say. “Forgive me, but I do not understand why this concept is so foreign to you.”

Corin waves off their confusion. “It’s just—where I’m from, information is guarded, you know? You need permission from someone higher up to research…well, anything, I guess.” Information is knowledge, and to know something different than your fellow troopers is to be rebellious. It’s a slippery slope.

“Corin,” says the Mandalorian. “It’s a public library.”

“I—” His gaze darts between the child, the bounty hunter, the doctor, and the surroundings. “I don’t know what that is?”

He receives two blank stares.

Corin’s shoulders hunch defensively. “I know what is in _practice._ It’s public information, I _do_ get that. But what I don’t understand is why _you,”_ he gestures to Ross, “are _here,”_ he gestures to the general setting. “You work for your…government entity, but you’re _here,_ on this jungle moon in the Outer Rims. What’s so important about this place that your superiors would allow you travel all the way out here, trusting two complete strangers with your life?”

Their eyes gleam. In the natural darkness of the jungle, their slitted pupils have expanded, swallowing the yellow sclera. “Corin,” they say in their curious accent, “information is eternal. It is like the stars—it burns in the cold universe for eons. Oftentimes, one of those stars dies, and the material it has made is recycled. We, ourselves, every lifeform on every life-bearing planet is made of information. Our molecules are built-in replicators, constantly printing new data.

“Do you understand?” they ask and wait for his answer.

“No,” is his honest reply. “What does this have to do with the Jedi Temple?”

Their ears flick. “The Old Jedi Order and the Old Republic were in close confidence. In the days before the Empire, the capitol of the Old Republic was centered on Coruscant, as was the Jedi Temple. As such, they shared intimate knowledge with each other, exchanging ideologies, philosophies, scientific discoveries, and even culture.” They pause. Their eyes glitter in the dotting sunlight, their skin seems to sparkle. “Recently, the New Republic has excavated the ruined Jedi Temple. This is not yet known to the public, and it won’t be for many years, but the University is collecting Old Jedi teachings.”

Corin’s brows furrow. “There was a Jedi Temple on Coruscant?”

“Yes. After the Massacre, it was erected as a monument.”

“Massacre,” he repeats.

Her head tilts, reminiscent of the Mandalorian. “The end of the Republic was marked by the massacre of the entire Jedi Order. Millions, perhaps billions of sentients were slaughtered in a matter of hours. Civilians were shot in the streets, teachers and students executed in their classrooms. No Force-Sensitive was spared; farmers were poisoned in their fields, government workers corralled and mass executed by Imperial Stormtroopers. The temples were razed, monks murdered in places of worship, entire cities annihilated. Historical records were lost. Countless years of painstakingly acquired knowledge was destroyed. It was a time of great sorrow, an event that was felt across the galaxy and possibly beyond.”

Corin shifts uneasily. Suddenly, he wishes that he had the child in his arms, and reaches across the table to do just that. It reaches for the crumbs of his meal, even though he saw the Mandalorian stop it from literally consuming its plate. He bounces it in his lap, and stares as it gurgles with delight. Corin gropes for words. “I wasn’t aware of any of this.”

They hum. “Not many are. The New Republic lacks infrastructure, and so these topics are not taught in places of learning. It is the core of our society, and yet hardly anyone knows of the Jedi. It is a travesty that will not be remedied within my lifetime.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, but I thought I should post what I have. mostly unedited
> 
> enjoy

After their meal, they leave for the jungle. They hike for hours, sweating in the sweltering humidity until Corin feels like he’s swimming in it. He’s never been fond of the heat, and has found that he has a very low tolerance for it. He drinks canteen after canteen, though he’s careful to keep an eye on their water intake. The Mandalorian’s armor, he hopes, has temperature regulation—he can’t imagine the suit would be possible to wear in heat like this otherwise.

The child, however, seems to thrive. It is energetic and rambunctious, hobbling after wildlife foolish enough to come near. Once, Corin thought he saw it _eat_ an insect the size of its head.

After that, the Mandalorian carries it.

Eventually, they stop to rest. Being gravitationally locked, this moon doesn’t have a night and day cycle, so the hints of daylight seen through the foliage plays havoc on Corin’s circadian rhythm. The Mandalorian feeds the baby with fresh food while Corin enjoys a bland ration bar. Ross eats their own meal near the fire. In the firelight, their skin refracts the ambience, fae-like and otherworldly.

Corin doesn’t mean to voice his curiosity, but the question comes to him and he lacks the discipline to swallow the words. “Doctor,” he says, “you said you work at the Public University. Why aren’t you conducting your research at the capitol?”

Their eyes glitter. “Is there a reason for me to be?” they ask. “I’m perfectly comfortable here. The village is a day’s walk that way—“ they gesture, “and I have access to the documents I need. If tomorrow goes well, I will have access to hundreds of other documents, perhaps more.”

Corin shifts. “But what is it you’re looking for?”

“I am looking for essays,” they explain, straightening from their lethargic sprawl. “I am collecting Jedi moral teachings. I seek to learn about the Force.”

At this, the Mandalorian joins the conversation. “What interest could you possibly have in the Force?” he deadpans.

“It is an intriguing subject,” they primly reply.

“But—” He searches for words. “No one can use it. It’s worthless.”

“Is it?” She tilts her head. “The Force binds the universe together. If it is like energy, it is true to a point. But how close to the truth is it? Does it truly affect the world around us, the reality we have crafted within the confines of our mind? If so, how? Can it be perceived? If so, how? These are questions that are intriguing to me, and Jedi philosophers have pondered the same things. I want to learn what they have learned. I seek to study the unpublished works that the Jedi have conducted.

“Alternatively, is this a thing that can be studied? Are there tests that can be conducted that are not harmful to the test subject? I would like to know these things.”

 _I wouldn’t,_ Corin thought, shifting uncomfortably.

The Mandalorian says, “Because it’s essential to your career?”

“Because it’s important to me _and_ my studies,” they correct. “It is mutually exclusive. I am doing this because I am interested in the subject, not because I am obligated.”

Corin quietly absorbs this. The datapad in his hands is thin and light, but he feels as though the information it contains should make the device heavier. There are hundreds of folders within it, every file succinctly titled in Common. He scans through it and clicks on a file that sticks out to him. _Meditation,_ it says. It’s less of an essay and more of an instruction manuel, a few hundred words long about how to clear one’s mind during meditation. 

_The Force will guide you,_ pens Udm, the script neat and strangely pensive. _You are a leaf on the wind, and the wind clears your thoughts and the cloudiness of your mind. Sentience is about emotionality, but emotions cloud the Force and prevent action. Release your feelings into the Force and..._ Corin skims the rest, unsettled by the similarity he finds in his own thought process. He backs out of the file and reads some of the other titles held in the same folder, frowning thoughtfully.

The fire crackles. The child moves to the Mandalorian’s splayed lap.

Ross breaks the silence. “I have with a memory crystal. When we arrive at the Jedi Temple, we will go to its library and copy its database.”

“Just like that?” Corin asks.

“Just so,” they confirm.

—-

If only it were so easy.

—-

The Jedi Temple has been swallowed by the jungle. Undergrowth has consumed it and trees have taken root in the fertile soil. [idk what a Jedi Temple looks like, except that it’s cool looking and super old. It looks more like the entrance to a cave than a building.] They waste precious time trying to find the entrance.

“Perhaps it is intuitive,” Ross theorizes.

“Maybe it collapsed,” the Mandalorian suggests.

Corin examines an ivy-covered wall. There’s a door here, he can _feel_ it. He looks at the Child, standing calmly between he and the Mandalorian. “Is it baby-proof?” he teases, crouching to the babe’s level. Playfully, he flicks the tip of its ear. The ears twitch and the baby’s mouth opens in a gummy grin.

Ross’ face is drawn in deep thought. “If it is intuitive…where is the interface?”

The Mandalorian tests the strength of a pillar. “What interface?”

She gestures to the ruins. “Please imagine a computer. It has many ports in which one may input data, or schedule a system update, or form a line of communication with the Temple’s security. In this scenario, we are attempting to access data from the wrong port. Do you understand?”

Corin nods. “We just need to find a point of entry so we can determine if there’s been an error in the system.”

“Precisely. If there is indeed an error, then we must investigate the issue.”

Corin lifts the child and bounces it on his hip. “Well, you said it’s a big building; there’s at least gotta be an egress point.”

Somehow, the Mandalorian has moved into Corin’s space and is radiating heat at his side. His arm raises to move over the child fuzzy head, but his faceplate is turned to the ruined Jedi temple. It’s like he’s barely aware of the close proximity, tuned more into the child than his environment. He’s not close enough to smell, which is disappointing because he has such an _interesting_ scent— like the crackling discharge of a blaster and the crisp, unique scent of Beskar.The Mandalorian hardly ever gets close enough for him to smell, but it’s always a treat when he does.

It makes Corin want to bury his nose in the man’s neck and breathe deeply.

Corin clears his throat and steps away.

——

In the end, it’s the child that finds the door.

During a game of chase, Corin theatrically pursues it through crumbled stones and soft grass. It had disappeared behind a wall of ivy, squealing, and Corin had burst through the vines and snatched it up into a spinning hold. Delighted, the little thing laughs and laughs, and Corin laughs with it. He twirls once more for good measure, the child held high in the air and absolutely beside itself with happiness.

“You thought you could escape _my_ clutches?” he demands, smiling wide and bringing it close to his face. They rub noses and Corin will never tire of the creature’s cool skin, its leathery texture and finely curled white hairs. “Hah! Think again, you silly little bean of a baby,” and showers its wrinkly face with kisses.

When he looks up, he sees the door. It’s circular and rusted, but there is no mistaking it for what it is.

Corin calls his companions and the Mandalorian praises the child for its find.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the bois (+1) traipse around an abandoned temple

The inside of the temple is barren. There are decaying decorations lining the winding hallways, and furniture in dusty rooms. They breeze past abandoned classrooms and peek into grand halls, slink into overgrown courtyards and sleepy gardens. Sunlight streams through vast glass ceilings, and wildlife has retaken the temple. The landscape is picturesque, tranquil and peaceful. Birds chirp in a small cluster of trees and there are burbling streams curving into the floor. 

Corin has never seen such a blend of natural architecture. He was used to the stark complexes of the Empire, of the sprawling buildings that were devoid of any nature. The Empire didn’t care for green and growing things, and any native flora was burned to make room for imperial expansion. The fauna were considered to be nothing more than pests to be purged. Here, however, vibrant animals dart overhead and colorful insects buzz against robust trunks.

“This is beautiful,” Corin says.

The Mandalorian’s faceplate hasn’t seemed to move from Corin’s enraptured face, where the dappled sunlight plays in his dark hair. His eyes must be especially blue, not that Corin would notice, nor does he see how the Mandalorian’s hand circles his own wrist as though staving off a ghostly touch. “Yeah,” is all he says, his voice surprisingly gruff.

The child trails at the Mandalorian’s heels, ears twitching at every lively sound and head swivelling to catch glimpses of curious, six-legged creatures. He tries to venture away from their group, but Corin keeps a wary eye on him and steers him back on track when necessary.

Labyrinthian and expansive, the dead temple easily rivals any base Corin has ever been stationed on. They’ve only explored for a short time, yet Corin senses that the temple could house thousands of souls. That there are only four is a travesty. 

“Are all the temples this big?” Corin asks, trying not to stare too obviously.

“Most of them,” Ross says. “They are not simply places of worship—there are training grounds and schools and residences. Shopping centers and market places and community spaces. There were many lives within these walls. People came and went for various reasons, as with any spaceport. These people traded ideas rather than material goods. The currency was knowledge and the transaction was logged in computers. Another use of this memory drive I carry is to communicate between the network these computers share.”

The Mandalorian says, “This place is a maze.”

Ross hums. “Yes. It is quite big. Still, the library should be obvious once we come across it.”

* * *

The library is, indeed, obvious. 

It’s an entire wing dedicated to honest-to-god paper books, bound in leather and lining the walls floor-to-ceiling. The smell is one of a kind, something that drifts in the air and twings some strange lizard part of his brain with satisfaction. He delicately removes a book from its long-held place on the shelf, and as he opens it and breathes deeply, the scent settles somewhere in the back of his throat. Despite the age of the temple, the books seem to be in good condition, and though the ink has faded, the words are legible. If there is a system to the wing, Corin can’t parse it. Romance holos and history paper books share the same aisle, along with biology textbooks and philosophy flimsies. Winding staircases curl around the library, designed as their own bookshelves and carefully hewn to act as pillars for the upper stories. It’s dusty and old, but the wing has held up well under the test of time. 

There are finely-crafted holos and flimsi mimicries interspersed among the shelves, devices that hold their own sort of library. The flimsies have a sleek feel to the pseudo-paper, and the content within easily shows itself to the eye, fresh as the day the information was encoded within its quantum banks. The holos are high-quality, the holographic projection of the author crisp and spotless. The voices are clear, and the speakers picture-perfect. 

If Ross is to be believed, there is knowledge of a lifetime at his fingertips, and every single one of these books have been uploaded to the temple’s database. They won’t have to sit down and read each book or watch every holo; all they need is to transfer the data and Ross’ people will take care of the rest.

Doctor Ross, Corin sees when he looks for them, is crying.

“You okay?” he asks, somewhat dubious.

They wipe their eyes. “I have never been better,” they say through a tearful smile. “Come, now. The computer is this way.”

The interface is a fairly simple device, raised near the front of the wing. The screen is dark and unresponsive, the keypad undusted and pristine. Doctor Ross reaches into their utility belt and removes a single dark crystal, no bigger than their talon. Corin feels it humming in the air, hears a high, singing note thrumming from it. “What is that?” he asks, fighting the urge to take from the doctor’s grasp and, like,  _ eat  _ it. It’s a strange compulsion, and he shifts uneasily.

“This is a kyber crystal,” they reply. “It will commune with the Temple’s network and grant me access to the archives. It is harmless, I assure you,” they add, watching Corin shrewdly. 

Corin frowns. “The fact that you have to  _ assure _ me rubs me the wrong way, Doc.”

They hum and touch the crystal to the computer’s screen, and Corin’s frown deepens as the crystal brightens as though lit from within, and the device comes alive. “A moment, please,” Ross murmurs, unconcerned with the lightshow, and starts to tap on the keypad.

Corin turns his attention to the Mandalorian, who is showing the child how to open a book. “This is paper,” he’s saying. “It burns very easily. Perfect for kindling and distractions.  _ Bic hettir. _ ”

Corin chuckles. “That’s not what books are for, traditionally.”

The Mandalorian’s head whips up. He straightens from his kneeling position, leaving the book on the floor. The child rips a page out and waves it around triumphantly. His father visibly brightens. “Good job, kid.”

Corin slants a glance at Ross, but they are still preoccupied with the computer. “Maybe we shouldn’t deface a priceless artifact.”

“Does it matter? No one’s using them.”

Ross, Corin feels, would disagree. He doesn’t want to anger their client, so he approaches the child and sits down across from it, gently takes the page from his hand and reads a few lines aloud.  _ “...exoplanets are planets outside of the solar system. Most are not habitable, but with the invention of hyperspace travel, it is possible to locate and travel to planets that are capable of sustaining life. Hyperspace is another dimension that can only be reached by achieving speeds at greater than the speed of light. _ Do you know how fast light goes, kid?” he asks, and as the kid just stares, he turns to the Mandalorian and waits.

“...What?”

“How fast is the speed of light?” he repeats patiently.

“Uh.”

Corin’s eyebrows raise. “It’s not a teaching moment if we can’t  _ teach, _ you know.”

The Mandalorian’s head rolls. “He’s a bit young for astrophysics.”

“No one’s too young to learn about the universe. So: how fast?”

“One hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second. Obviously.”

_ “Obviously, _ he says.” Corin winks at the child. “He had to think about it.”

The baby watches him, sitting quietly as Corin continues to regal him with facts. By the time he finishes the page, the Mandalorian has wandered closer to their little group and deigned to sit down with them. He doesn’t offer much in the way of backtalk, thankfully, but his presence is nice nonetheless. He sits close enough to Corin that their legs brush and when Corin moves his arms to gesticulate, their shoulders touch. Like his son, he stares at Corin in fascination and listens as the former trooper brings life from paper. 

Soon enough, the page has been read. Corin leans forward and partially into the Mandalorian’s lap, placing a balancing hand on the man’s uncovered lower thigh to get a read on Ross’ progress. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and spares him a glance, but he’s turned his faceplate stubbornly away. Ross hasn’t finished what they're doing, concentrating hard on the screen. Corin squeezes the Mandalorian’s leg and lets go to scoot closer to the book. The baby already has a hand out for the page, so Corin gives it to him and grins when the baby places it back in place. 

“C’mon, kiddo,” Corin says, deciding to find a more interesting genre. “What do you say we find something with pictures, huh?”

He stands, the child following him, perusing the shelves. He doesn’t hear the Mandalorian’s bracing sigh nor see how he slumps his once-tense shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...Should i label this as slow-burn?????)
> 
> gosh i miss these bois
> 
> Translation--   
> _Bic hettir_ : it burns

**Author's Note:**

> bear with me y'all


End file.
